


Ich Bin

by neednot



Category: Moulin Rouge! (2001), The X-Files
Genre: AU, F/M, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-03
Updated: 2018-08-06
Packaged: 2019-06-20 23:58:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15545118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neednot/pseuds/neednot
Summary: X-Files AU set in 1931 Berlin, a bit of a mix of Cabaret and Moulin Rouge.Mulder is a man who's seen war. Scully is a woman who's used her body to survive, a war of its own kind. Now a singer at the Kit Kat Club in Berlin, she spends her days dealing in secrets and nights singing love songs she doesn't believe in.Until Mulder. Assigned to write about the club and the secrets underneath, Mulder realizes he may soon be in over his head, an American in Berlin—especially when he starts falling for Scully...





	1. Chapter 1

**chapter one. Berlin, 1931**

Germany is not a safe place for a Jew.

He knows that, and yet—

He’s here for a friend. An American friend, and if he really thinks about it he would’ve told the American friend _No_.

But Mulder’s always liked a good adventure, a good mystery. Even better when the mystery involves a nightclub, sex, dancing, girls.

Besides. He is young and he is invincible, and his family is Dutch so he always figures he can escape to Holland if need be, if things get a little too hairy.

But he wants to see this nightclub first.

Here is what he notices first, fresh from the Potsdamer Platz Bahnhof, luggage still in his hand and sweat on his brow—

the smoke. He briefly gave up smoking when he was in the Army (God was that only a few years ago) but the smell makes his mouth water, brings it back. Maybe he’ll settle for a beer instead.

He knows he should go to the hotel. Call his American friend, Skinner, old Army buddy from back in the day, back when they were boys who didn’t know better. He’s not that old now but his body likes reminding him of his limits, even at 33.

Truth told he should call Skinner anyway, get more information on what exactly the fuck he’s doing here, why he ever agreed to come back to this God-forsaken country.

But he was bored in the States. Office work doesn’t suit him.

Conspiracies, chasing monsters—that suits him. So when Skinner called him out of the blue and asked if he’d like to go back to Berlin, something fishy was happening, well—

how could he say no?

After the smoke, he notices the girls. Women, he should say upon closer inspection, though he’s pretty sure there’s at least one man in drag.

How has this place not been shut down yet?

He takes a seat at the bar and orders a beer, his eyes traveling around the dimly lit space. There’s chairs, a baby grand in the corner, space on the floor for dancing and an incredibly small stage.

And the girls. Women. In lace and black and almost nothing, sauntering around, laughing at gentlemen who are far, far wealthier than Mulder. They give him a glance and they see the suitcase and the outfit and they smirk and turn away, a smirk that says he can’t afford even one of them for the night.

He doesn’t mind. That’s not why he’s here, not anyway.

He takes another sip of his beer, forgetting how strong German brews are and nearly choking on it. A hand pats his back, and he coughs, turns.

The man sitting in front of him has to be official. Has to be. He’s not wearing the uniform of the SS, but Mulder’s spent long enough with men in authority to recognize one when he sees one.

Is this who Skinner met?

The man is old, and he smells like smoke, but a different brand than what’s in the bar.

“Careful,” he says in German, the syllables heavy in Mulder’s ears. “Wouldn’t want you to choke before a woman even dances with you.”

“I’m not here to dance,” Mulder says, and the man laughs.

“American. Of course you are not. What’s your name?”

“Fox,” Mulder says, not volunteering his surname.

“Just Fox? Der Schlaukopf?”

Mulder knows enough to know that’s not the word for the animal Fox, but he smiles and lets the man have his laugh anyway.

“ _Nur Fox,_ ” he says, in badly accented German. Just Fox.

“Okay then, _nur Fox_ , what brings an American man to Berlin—to the Kit Kat Klub—if he’s not going to dance?”

“I’m here to observe—to write,” he says. “I’m a writer.”

It’s the cover they decided on, drunk one night while Skinner read Mulder’s letter home to his mother, _damn you shoulda been a poet_ , and if the war hadn’t happened maybe he would’ve been.

“Surely an American can write anywhere.” The man’s smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“True,” Mulder says, considering his words, “but there’s no place like Berlin.”

The man raises his glass, considering, as a spotlight floods the room. An emcee’s voice fills the air, sardonic and playful, though Mulder can’t understand the words. He thinks he catches a woman’s name but he can’t be sure.

And then—

He is captivated by her immediately. Her hair is bright red, a fire under the spotlight. She’s small but in perfect control of every movement, her skin creamy and white and pale. Her lips are as red as her hair. She’s in a black corset, heels, stockings that reach up her thigh.

When she locks eyes with him, he forgets all about the mission. About everything but the woman in front of him.

Her gaze flicks to the man beside him and falters, just for a moment. But she turns her attention back to Mulder and gives him a wink.

Somewhere, a band starts playing. And the woman starts singing. Her voice isn’t strong, but it’s low and husky and inviting, and Mulder wants to drown in it.

“Captivating, isn’t she?” the man next to Mulder says, and it takes Mulder a minute to register that he’s speaking heavily accented English. “Came here only a month ago and immediately became our headliner. Brings in more than half the girls combined.”

He glances over at Mulder, who understands then who the man is— _Der Natter_. The viper. The owner of the club, the one Skinner warned him about.

Mulder licks his dry lips, takes another sip of his beer. “Who is she?”

 _Der Natter_ tips his head. “Her name is Dana. I am certain you cannot afford her.” His voice is cold, matter-of-fact. “But you are a writer, and she does like her men romantic. If she likes you, if you stay—” and here his eyes cut back to Mulder— “I may have a job for you.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

**chapter two**

_Dana._

The name rolls around in his head. Distinctly, decidedly not German. He likes it immediately for that.

“She’s gorgeous, no?” the man says. He stands and claps Mulder on the shoulder. “Maybe if you’re lucky, I’ll arrange a visit between the two of you.”

Mulder chokes down the last of his beer. “I’d like that.”

He pretends not to notice the way the man’s eyes linger on Dana. Already he feels possessive of her, even though she isn’t his. She does two more songs, each more sultry than the last, each time a little more clothing coming off. Mulder finds himself drooling.

He’s not the only one. Most of the men in the car can’t take their eyes off her, to the dismay of the girls around them. It’s clear since she arrived they haven’t been getting as much business.

There are whistles and catcalls as Dana finishes her set, winks at the audience, then heads backstage. Mulder nurses the last of his beer. The man left his side awhile ago, is now standing in a corner talking to a younger man, gesturing wildly. For a moment Mulder briefly entertains a fantasy, of going backstage and finding Dana. Forgetting what assignment Skinner gave him and just getting to know this woman with the red hair.

But then reality cuts in. He still needs a place to stay. The suitcase sits by his side. Skinner had told him about someone he knew Mulder could get a room with, but here near the club seems as good a place as any.

He heads up to _Der Natter_. The beer makes him bolder. “Mein Herr,” he begins, for he at least knows that, “would I be able to trouble you for a room nearby?”

The man laughs. “You have known me all of five minutes and you come to met asking for a room? Surely you would have found one before you came to Berlin.”

Mulder licks his lips. “If I may be so bold, the setting of the—the club, is more inspiring than I anticipated. I’d be honored to have a room near the establishment. I can pay,” he adds, as if that will sweeten the deal.

 _Der Natter_ pauses and considers him. Mulder feels distinctly as if he’s being x-rayed. He watches as the man pulls out a cigarette and turns to the younger man next to him to light it. He takes a few puffs, still considering Mulder.

“You’re in luck, Fox,” he says after a minute. “I think we can work out a deal. My associate Krycek needs lessons in English. Who better than a writer?”

Krycek. The name sears itself into Mulder’s skull. Krycek’s eyes appraise Mulder, who swallows. As distrustful as he is of Germans, Russians are worse.

“Pleasure,” Krycek says, and when he shakes Mulder’s hand does it linger a little too long?

“If you give him—let’s say weekly lessons—then the spare room above the cabaret is yours; I have no use for it.”

“I can do that,” Mulder says. The older man nods and quickly presses a key into Mulder’s palm.

“Frau Schmidt is the landlady, tell her I sent you. If she protests, tell her again,” he says. “You are my guest now.”

The smile he gives Mulder tells him he would eat him alive the first chance he got.

“And, Herr Mulder? Welcome to Berlin.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

**chapter three**

 

The room Frau Schmidt shows him to is small, but then again he’s been used to worse. He sets his suitcase down and glances around.

It’s dimly lit, with the nightstand and a table lamp shoved in the far corner. There’s not much of a view; he overlooks the alley behind the club, and the room itself is musty.

With a sigh he goes to open the window and is only able to force it open a small amount. The alley is dark and smells faintly of smoke.

He should sleep, he knows. He needs to explore the city in the morning, maybe actually _write_ something, and he’s supposed to teach Krycek first thing tomorrow morning.

But the room is musty and he needs to clear his head from the smoke in the club, the beer and the promises he made to a man he barely knows. He pushes the window open just a little further and sticks his head out.

What has he gotten himself into?

Is any of this going to be worth it?

Laughter down below distracts him from his thoughts, and he glances down, realizing that the alley he’s looking into is directly behind the club. A man and woman step out, the man holding the woman by the wrist. The laughter comes again, though it’s decidedly harsher than what Mulder held before.

With a shock, he realizes he knows the pair. _Der Natter_. And the flaming red hair must be Dana.

He can’t hear what they’re saying; he suspects they’re arguing in German anyway so even if he could hear it he wouldn’t understand. The rigid precision of the language trips out of their mouths, sharp even in the heat of an argument.

 _Der Natter_ pulls Dana to him, and jealousy twists in Mulder’s gut already. But she wrenches away, quickly, and for a wild moment Mulder thinks the older man will backhand her, before he too steps away and pulls out a cigarette.

She glances up. And before Mulder can stop her or look away, her gaze meets his. There’s something defiant and challenging in that gaze. A look daring him to say something and to keep quiet all at once.

He can’t tear his eyes away from her.

The next few days pass in a blur as he explores the city by day and the club by night. Already he is picking up phrases and words; already he is beginning to learn which girls he can buy a drink and which he should leave alone.

And then there is Dana, always Dana. She still hasn’t spoken to him, hasn’t even acknowledged him except for the few times a night she comes out for a smoke after he’s already in his room. There, she makes eye contact with him from his window, gives a little nod, and goes back inside.

He’s wondering what it will take to get an audience with her. To do something to curry her favor.

Maybe he could just buy her a cigarette. Offer to write her something—no, that’s stupid, that’s so stupid.

He tells himself it’s because he needs a way to get to _Der Natter,_ find out what he’s up to. But truth is Dana is gorgeous, and he knows he wants an audience with her for his own selfish reasons.

He doesn’t get one until his fourth visit to the club, and even that is totally unexpected. He’s sitting at the bar, nursing his drink. It’s an old whiskey, from a year he’d rather forget. One of the women catches his eye. She has dark hair, a bewitching smile. She’s been trying to get him for the last few nights, he knows.

Krycek sits at the end of the bar. His first lesson with Mulder went well; he has a better grasp on English than Mulder expected. When their communication fell through they spoke a rough form of German.

Almost every night now he’s seen _Der Natter_ and Dana arguing in the alley. He doesn’t understand what they argue about though he can guess; _Der Natter_ more than once has left his arm around Dana’s waist like he owns her, though he’s old enough to be her father.

But it’s none of Mulder’s business. Skinner wants him to investigate _Der Natter_ , sure, but what the man does with the girls of his club is none of Mulder’s business.

The chatter dies down and one of the acts starts up, the dark-haired woman from earlier. Her voice is prettier than Dana’s, but she’s got nowhere near the appeal, and it’s evident that she knows it, and so do the men around him.

But she’s pretty enough, and her undergarments are lacy enough, and the song is sultry enough, so what do they care?

And then—

The lights flash rapidly when her song reaches a fever pitch and suddenly he is back on a war-torn field in France, near the Marne river, and there are gunshots and screams and—

He needs air.

He rushes out of the club and is greeted by the chilly night, the frost ripping into his lungs. He leans against a wall and closes his eyes. Too close, it was all too close. And the smell of smoke and the German just reminded him of the war and he had— he had to get out.

Skinner doesn’t get like this. If he does, he and Mulder don’t talk about it.

“You okay?”

It takes him a minute to register that the words are in English. The voice is decidedly feminine, and he turns.

Dana stands in front of him. She’s in the slinky red dress she wore during her number, a cigarette pursed between her lips. For a moment he is speechless, stunned by the sight of this woman in front of him. He coughs, finds his voice.

“I’m fine.” She doesn’t need to know about the way his hands tremble, about the nightmares of smoke and fog and screams.

She grinds out the cigarette under her heel. “I don’t believe that for a minute.” Her accent throws him.

“You’re English.”

She shrugs. “Did you think I wasn’t?”

“Your German is very good.”

“Mm. It has to be,” she says. Her voice is soft and husky, a contrast with an accent he’s always expected to be sharp and clean. “You’re Fox.”

He blushes. “Mulder. No—no one calls me Fox except my mother. And you’re Dana.”

Something dark passes over her face when he says her name. He suspects she’s heard it out of the mouths of too many men. “If we’re going by last names, Mulder, then I supposed you can call me Scully.” The corner of her mouth quirks up, a joke only she knows. “What exactly are you here for?”

He likes her more for this. No bullshit.

“I’m here to write,” he says, shrugging.

“About the club?” Her eyes narrow. “That’s a long way for an American to travel. Surely there are things in your home you can write about?”

She sounds like _Der Natter,_ and Mulder fleetingly wonders if she would be asking him this if she hadn’t been spending so much time with that man.

“There’s no place like Berlin,” he replies, echoing himself from earlier. She gives him a nod, but her eyes never leave his.

Her eyes are blue. And he’s seen so many blue eyes here, but hers? Hers are knowing and quick and he finds he can’t tear himself away from them.

She finishes her cigarette and immediately lights another. “So what do you write?” she asks after a minute. “Songs? Poetry?”

“No,” he says. “I can’t rhyme worth a damn. I write stories.”

A smile pulls up the corners of her mouth. “You’re going to put me in a story?”

“I may,” he says. “I mean. A woman like you.”

It’s the wrong thing to say, and he knows it immediately as the words fall out of his mouth. Her face clouds over.

“And what kind of woman am I?”

“I don’t know yet.”

That earns him a laugh. Teasing, patronizing, and he already knows he will do anything to hear that laugh again.

“Well, Mulder,” Dana—no, Scully—says, sidling up to him. “Maybe you’ll get a chance to find out.”

She is so close to him. Her perfume is heady and intoxicating and he wants her immediately.

But then the door to the alley swings open, and Krycek is staring at the two of them, and just like that Scully has pulled away, and before Mulder knows it the door is shut, and she is gone, and he is

alone.

 


	4. Chapter 4

He sees no sign of Dana for the next two days. She’s not at the club, and she isn’t performing, much to the dismay of the men in the audience as much as Mulder.

She doesn’t cause a commotion when she comes back, and this, Mulder understands, is something: it means it’s not a rare occurrence for her to leave. What’s stranger, to him, is there’s no sign of _Der Natter_ either.

Then again, perhaps that isn’t so strange.

On the third morning Mulder forces himself to get away from the club, away from Frau Schmidt and Krycek, who’ve been watching him every hour they can. He slips away while the sun is still rising and makes his way down the street, hat pulled low over his head until he’s a few blocks from the club.

He stops on a corner and looks around. Being in the club has made him forget—that there is a world outside it. Men and women mill around him, talking in laughing in German and sometimes, occasionally French, heading to work or who-knows-where. Rebuilding, after the war.

He didn’t expect this. He expected disappointment and downcast faces, but then again, it has been so long since the war.

(Not long for him, or the other men who fought. He still sees their faces when he closes his eyes, as much as he tries not to.)

He finds a pay phone down a side alley near Friedrichstraße, scans the instructions six times before he finally successfully places a call to Skinner.

“Hello?”

“Skinner.”

“Mulder. About time,” and his friend laughs. “How is Berlin treating you? The club?”

“It’s… a lot,” Mulder says, and Skinner laughs again.

“Anything to report?”

“I’m giving English lessons to a Russian.”

“No kidding. Hope you’re not telling him too much.”

Skinner’s voice is teasing, but serious. They’ve known each other for almost a decade and Mulder is only just now able to tell when Skinner is joking with him.

“I’m not,” Mulder protests. “Anyway. Der Natter’s been away the past few days, and so has his main girl—Dana.”

Her name feels odd in his mouth. He’s called her Scully in his head since she insisted he did.

“Tell me about her,” Skinner says. Mulder’s breath catches in his throat. What can he tell, what can he reveal without giving away his own feelings? Worse, what does he know? She’s a woman with fiery red hair who sings at a club, and that’s really all he knows about her.

“She’s not German,” he says. A pause. “She has red hair.”

“The Army certainly recruited you for your observation, didn’t they?” Skinner says. “Mulder. Find out more. If she’s _Der Natter’s_ favorite, there must be a reason.”

“Okay.”

“And Mulder?”

He already knows what he’s going to say.

“Don’t get attached to her.”

He wanders the streets, watching, stopping at a Verkaufstand for a newspaper and Schrippe, a small bread roll.

Maybe he should find real food, he thinks as his stomach growls, he’s been subsisting on potatoes and beer since he arrived. Already he can feel himself growing soft.

He clutches the newspaper in his fist, wondering fleetingly if he can ask Scully to read it to him, explain the German so he understands.

God, what he really should do is write. Write something, so no one gets suspicious. Write about Scully, write about the club, write to save his own skin. It’s been almost a week and the typewriter sits in the corner of his room, untouched.

But every time he sits at it, the words won’t come.

He returns to the club at nightfall, his belly full, his head clearer, newspaper tucked under his arm and a bag of fruit so he eats something that’s not bread and beer.

There’s a line out the door of the club, and his heart starts beating faster and faster, because he knows that can only mean one thing.

She’s back.

He has to fight his way in through the crowd of men, but is quickly seized by the arm by the dark-haired woman, the one whose set preceded Dana’s a few nights before.

“Come on,” she says, and for a second he thinks she’s propositioning him, whisking him backstage for something quick, and he’s about to pull away when she shoves him in a chair away from the others but with a good view of the stage.

“What—”

“She wants to be sure she can see you,” the woman says in English, her voice lightly accented. “Stay here.”

“I…”

“Stay,” she hisses, her dark eyes meeting his. “You don’t want to get on _Der Natter’s_ bad side.”

“What have I done to get on his bad side?” Mulder asks, but he’s afraid he already knows the answer.

“Don’t look at what’s _his,_ ” she responds, and he knows she doesn’t mean just watching the performance.

She hurries away before he can even ask her name.

The lights dim, and the spotlights lights up the middle of the stage, and he knows the entire audience there is holding their breath.

And she comes out. And she is beautiful, and pale, and her hair is even more red under the light—

But he’s close enough to see the bruise on her collarbone, carefully covered with make-up, a shadow if you weren’t close enough to see what it actually is.

Anger flares in his gut. He knows he should have nothing to be worried about, nothing to be afraid of, and yet—

She moves slowly, more so than normal, and Mulder can’t help but wonder if it’s part of her routine or if she’s in pain, what else she’s hiding.

Her eyes catch his during the chorus as she straddles a chair, and he swallows, careful not to let his expressions betray him.

Oh, but she is beautiful.

But his eyes aren’t the only pair on her. From his vantage point he can see _Der Natter_ waiting in the wings, and Mulder quickly looks away. Best to play the dumb American as long as he can. Best to pretend like he knows nothing, feels nothing.

He’s never been the best at lying.

When the show is over he knows it is in his best interests to slip away quickly, quietly, back up the stairs to his room. He does as the applause still fills the space, hoping not to be stopped by Krycek or the woman on his way out.

He shuts himself in his room, the typewriter still glaring at him, daring him to sit down and put his thoughts on paper. Daring him to write something, make the accusations in his head real.

But what does he even have to say? _Der Natter_ is up to something? He knows that. That he’s hitting his girls and fucking them on the side? Mulder suspects that, too.

But words have power, and he’s not about to give it to them by writing things down.

He could begin a story, but even that feels trite.

God, he needs a smoke.

He fishes a cigarette out of his pocket, lights it, and leans out the window. Dana is not in the alley tonight; just the dark, just light playing off shadows and making him see things. And light playing off shadows makes him think of the bruise on her collarbone, and that anger rushes through him again, hot and unfamiliar.

He takes another drag.

There’s a knock at his door, and he slowly stubs his cigarette out, not wishing for the company. Perhaps it’s Krycek, come to spy; perhaps it’s _Der Natter_ demanding to see what Mulder has written about his club so far.

The knock sounds again.

“Coming,” he calls, in English because he’s feeling spiteful, and heads towards the door.

He opens it, and—

There she is, in front of him, her smile tight, her eyes inviting questions he doesn’t have.

“Scully?”


End file.
